


Bound By Law

by Citation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Omega John, Virgin Sherlock, a bit of non-con (as the characters are obliged to bond against their will)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:37:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1883883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citation/pseuds/Citation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an Alpha/Omega universe where suppressants don’t exist and Alphas are forced to bond by law, Alpha Sherlock Holmes is bonded to John Watson, a Neutered Omega. Thrust into a bond neither of them wanted, the two men will have to learn to live together and, in due time, they will both discover their forced bonding was the best thing that could ever happen to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound By Law

**Author's Note:**

> This story assumes that you have seen the first two seasons of “Sherlock” and that most scenes in this story occurred as they were depicted on screen.
> 
> Thanks to Wendy for checking this over.
> 
> Also, English is not my first Language,so keep it in mind if you find some mistakes.

1

 

Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective was lying on a couch too short for him, staring at the ceiling of his room in the London Breeding House. A room with a door locked from outside, bars at the window and furniture bolted to the floor. A cell for all intents and purposes, in which he had been closed for the previous five days.

Sherlock was very irritated and bored out of his mind. His precious brain would certainly rot if he didn’t get out of there quickly, as he had exhausted all the ways to keep it at work. He had read all the – boring – books in the room and deduced the lives of all the doctors, nurses and orderlies he had come in contact with. As they had taken away his phone, he couldn’t even text to Lestrade and consult from his prison.

Suddenly the sound of approaching steps and of a well-known voice galvanized him. Sherlock jumped up from the couch and by the time the door opened to admit his brother, he was already in the middle of the room.

“Get me out of here, Mycroft!” he exclaimed.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” his brother answered as he approached him. A moment of silence, during which the sound of the door being locked echoed in the room, then he continued. “I can’t.”

“You can’t or you won’t?” Sherlock retorted.

“I can’t. The man you attacked suffered three broken ribs and a concussion, and-”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock growled, raising his hands and starting to pace. “I didn’t ‘attack’ that man because he was a bonded Alpha and I wanted to steal his mate.” His expression turned into a grimace of distaste. “I blocked him because I deduced he was about to rob an old lady of her purse! Obviously!”

“Brother dear,” Mycroft replied calmly, “I’m well aware of your incredible...control over your biology. Unfortunately, the judge is not, and there was nothing I could do to change her mind. As you stopped that man before he could rob the old lady, there is no actual evidence he was about to commit such a crime but your words—and the judge doesn’t believe them.”

“Well, the judge is an idiot! How can she even think I would want to steal that man’s boring, needy, stupid Omega!?” Sherlock exclaimed as he continued pacing.

Mycroft looked at him patiently and with a compassionate expression that didn’t bode anything good. “I’m sorry, but you know the law: all alphas must be bonded by their thirtieth year, otherwise they become too dangerous. I’ve managed to bend the rules in your behalf for the past four years, but this incident has tied my hands. You must bond to an Omega.”

“And be tied to for the rest of my life to a boring creature and its cursed biology? Be turned into a mindless animal once a month as the Omega goes in heat? Sire a string of children who will make my life impossible?” Sherlock stopped his pacing in front of Mycroft and, for the first time since he was a child, he looked at his older brother with pleading eyes. “I don’t want that, Mycroft. I won’t be able to bear it. My mind, my rationality, my work...they are everything for me. I don’t want to be prey of biology like the other Alphas...I’ve never been like them. Why should I be forced to become the thing I despise most? Please help me.”

Mycroft was silent for a while, then took a step closer. “Sherlock, if you are really sure this is what you want, if you are really certain you will never want children...” He paused to look at his brother, who just nodded impatiently, “then there could be a solution.”

“What solution?” Sherlock asked, wavering between hope and suspicion.

“A Neutered Omega. You know what they are, don’t you?”

Sherlock huffed. “Of course. I met one on a case.”

“They are Omegas that don’t go in heat nor can have children,” Mycroft explained all the same, “because they had they O-gland removed due to injuries or illness. Would you be agreeable to bond with one of them? You would have to go through a drugs-simulated bonding heat, but after that you wouldn’t need to...satisfy any other biological imperative.”

Sherlock thought about the matter for a while. He found the idea of the bonding mating distasteful, but he could do it if it was the price of his freedom. As for the Omega he would be tied with...well, he had been able to endure Sebastian Wilkes and his idiotic mates at university. He would be able to endure this Omega too.

“All right, Brother. I’ll bond with one of them. Will you be able to find one quickly? I suppose they are quite uncommon.”

Mycroft smirked. “They are indeed. However, there is one in this House right now, and I took the liberty to reserve him for you. The staff just needs the order to proceed.”

Sherlock nodded and said firmly, “Then do it, and let’s hope he won’t turn to be too boring.”

 

2

 

The very moment John Watson, former RAMC captain saw two orderlies step inside his room along with the Breeding House’s manager, he knew his freedom was about to come to an end.

380 days—that was how long it had lasted. A little more than a year without being bound to an Alpha he didn’t love and considered him just a possession. One year being able to do what he pleased every time he wanted to for the first time since he completed university—and now it was going to end.

“John,” the House’s manager, a Beta woman in her fifties, began with a beaming smile, “I’ve good news. We’ve found a new mate for you!”

John just nodded, unable to summon any kind of enthusiasm or even interest at the news.

The manager didn’t seem to notice his lack of reaction; if she did, she chose to ignore it. “You’ll be very pleased with your new mate: he comes from an influent and rich family, he is younger than you and quite handsome.”

John nodded again, this time forcing a smile. Young and handsome would be a change compared to his late mate, but that didn’t mean it would make his...marital duties less oppressive than they had been in the past.

“Now John,” the manager continued, “your future mate wants for the bonding to happen as soon as possible, so we are going to proceed at once.”

John gritted his teeth, biting back his instinctive response “What about what I want?” He knew it would not change anything of what it was about to happen.

As the number of Omegas – both Full and Neutered – was currently inferior to the number of Alphas, the law dictated that any Omega losing their mate before reaching their fortieth birthday had to bond again. John had become a widower one month after turning thirty-eight, so the government had given him one year to find a new mate on his own. He had failed to – in truth he had not even looked to find someone, as he was too busy with trying to learn to adapt to civilian life – and thus the government had stepped in and found him a mate.

There was nothing John could do to avoid it, short from killing himself—which he had discovered in the past months he wasn’t able to do. So he nodded and rolled up his shirt sleeve, stretching his arm toward the orderly, so he could administer the injection that would trigger his simulated heat.

The manager smiled again, pleased everything had gone smoothly. “Now relax, John, and let the drugs do their job. It will cause you some discomfort, of course, as you aren’t used to heats, but in the end it will be worth it. You’ll get a new Alpha who will care for you, hopefully for the rest of your life. Isn’t it an exciting thought?”

For the fourth time during the visit, John nodded. He just wanted to be left alone and be able to spend in peace the time before the start of his heat, without having to listen to the platitudes of a woman who hadn’t the slightest idea about the life most Omegas led after being bonded.

After his visitors left, John limped back to his bed and reclined with his hands behind his head. What had just happened wasn’t surprising. He had known when he had received the letter summoning him to the London Breeding House that it was just a matter of time before he was paired off again. Neutered Omegas were uncommon and highly sought after by those Alphas who were not interested in breeding.

John had never regretted nor resented his condition as Neutered Omega. In his opinion, his inability to get in heat and bear children was a blessing, not a tragedy. He had given him the freedom to attend medical school and, later on, after he had been bonded to Army Colonel Nicholas Coleman, to join the RAMC, something forbidden to Full Omegas.

Colonel Coleman had been a forty-six year old widower when he had bonded with John, then twenty-two. Coleman had needed to get bonded in order to retain his command and John had been happy to be paired with him, especially after the Alpha had said he could join military life and become an army doctor. With the exuberance and optimism of his young age, John had been certain his bonded life with Nicholas would be happy.

He had been wrong.

It had turned out all Coleman wanted was to retain his position and have a warmth body to shag when he was in the mood. Nothing else.

He had never established an emotional connection with John. With the exception of the bonding heat, their couplings had always been quick, passionless affairs. Coleman had always taken John from behind, and left the bed as soon as he was finished, not caring if his Omega had reached or not his completion. In the beginning, when John had been young and full of hormones, he had found release and even a degree of satisfaction in those cold couplings, but as the years passed, sex with his bond-mate had ceased to have any appeal and had become a dreaded task. He had just lay there, took it and prayed it would end soon.

Thus it wasn’t really surprising John had felt any kind of grief when he had been told his Alpha had died in the same attack where John had been wounded. As a matter of fact, he had been far more shocked by learning that his injuries had made him unable to continue to be a soldier and was going to be honourably discharged.

 _Not that I could have continued being a soldier with a new mate,_ he thought.

John’s thoughts turned toward his future mate. He wondered what he did for a living and why he wasn’t interested in breeding. Usually young Alphas wanted litters of babies; it was more common for older Alphas, those who already had heirs and didn’t want more, to bond with Neutered Omegas.

Maybe, John reasoned, he didn’t want to be tied to a needy Full Omega. That he could understand...When he had been at Uni, he had watched with pitying eyes how the Full Omegas in his classes hung from every words the Alphas said; how desperate they had been to catch the attention of people who had nothing going for them – nor intelligence or beauty or wealth – but their gender. Then he had seen the Omegas return to school – when allowed to – completely changed, unable to make a decision more complex than decide what eat at lunch without their Alphas’ input.

Every time John had seen it, he had thanked the car crash he had been involved in when he was fourteen, and the injuries that had led to his O-gland removal. Because even during his bonded years with Coleman he had remained his own man, with his own mind and spirit—and that would never change, no matter who his new mate would turn to be.

3

Sherlock almost forgot to breathe in reaction to the blinding smile the House Manager gave him. He knew what it meant: the Omega was ready and the dreaded time had come. He would be forced to bond.

For a moment he eyed the open door, mentally calculating the odds to escape from the room and that cursed building. He had friends in his homeless network who could hide him and money stashed away under a fake identity. He could leave England and relocate in some country that didn’t enforce bonding...but he didn’t want to. As much as he considered himself above silly sentiment, Sherlock loved England. He loved London and the life he had built for himself there. And – even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud even under torture – he loved Mycroft too and would miss him if he left the country.

So Sherlock scratched the idea of an escape and glared at the manager, “I gather the Omega is ready. Take me to him.”

The manager handed him a folder. “I thought you would first like to read about him. You know, to make this more personal.”

Sherlock ignored the folder. “I don’t care about personal. I want this to be over as fast as possible and return to my life. God only knows how many interesting cases I’ve already missed because these idiotic laws.”

The smile finally fell from the manager’s face. Sherlock had observed the woman fancied herself to be a matchmaker and not the law enforcer she really was—and she didn’t like to be reminded of that.

“Come with me, Mr. Holmes,” she said coldly, turning toward the door. Sherlock followed her out of the room and into the corridor, closely tailed by two burly male Beta orderlies, ready to intervene if he became violent or tried to flee.

They walked until they reached a room at the opposite end of the corridor. Once there, the manager unlocked a door and opened it, as the two orderlies moved closer to Sherlock.

A wave of Omega pheromones invested him, almost paralyzing in their intensity. Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear his mind from the dizziness. Then he took a step backward, trying to get away from that disturbing, intoxicating scent, but the orderlies stepped in. He was pushed into the room and locked inside before he could even realize what was happening.

Sherlock rested with his back against the door, trying to calm his thundering heart. The room was similar to his own, so there was nothing to distract him from looking at the form writhing on the bed.

A naked man lying on his front. Sandy blond hair, shorter than him but blockier. Quite muscled to be an Omega. Interesting.

The man moaned and turned his head, his eyes fixing on Sherlock.

Sherlock licked his lips at the sight of those too bright blue eyes locked with his own. He became suddenly aware of the massive erection he now sported. It had been years since his flesh had been aroused to such a degree and he didn’t know what to do. Or better, he knew what he had to do but...Sherlock shook his head again as he took a tentative step forward.

The Omega was aroused, leaking lubrication and pre-come on the mattress and Sherlock felt his body flush with an unknown powerful feeling. He felt hot, his clothes constricting...without thinking, he got rid them, sighing in relief as his erection sprang free. He looked at the Omega again and his member throbbed, as the unknown feeling returned. But now he knew what he was. Lust. Want. He wanted the Omega. His always restrained Alpha side was now free and it wanted the smaller man. He wanted to claim. He wanted to possess. He wanted to bite the Omega and make him his. Sherlock growled and moved forward until his knees touched the mattress.

The Omega smiled at him as he spread his legs in invitation. “You’re beautiful, Sherlock,” he whispered with a slurred but still nice voice. “Such a good looking, strong Alpha...”

Sherlock felt like preening at the compliment, then frowned. The Omega knew who he was... and he had no idea of the other man’s name. _Stupid, stupid._ He should have least checked that in the folder the manager had offered him. He wasn’t an expert in these matters, but he was aware it was a proper thing to at least know the name of the person one was about to mate with.

Sherlock sat down on the bed, reaching out with a shaking hand – oh, he was trembling, why was he trembling? – to touch the Omega’s calf. The skin was hairy, but also soft and warm and he couldn’t resist the impulse to caress it.

“What...” his voice croaked. Sherlock cleared his throat and tried again. “What’s your name?”

“John,” came the almost breathless answer, as the blond man writhed again, probably trying to find some relief by rubbing his erection against the bed.

Sherlock climbed on the bed and scooted up the mattress on his hand and knees. He used one hand to stroke the other man’s back, intrigued by two scars that marred his skin. One was a surgical cut near his kidneys and it looked quite old. It probably had been made to remove the O-Gland. The other scar, instead, was much more recent, and looked like a bullet wound. Uhm...the Omega was getting more and more interesting.

No, not _the Omega_...John.

Suddenly the clarity of mind Sherlock always had had even when confronted with his biology, the clarity of thought he seemed to have lost since he stepped into that room, returned to him.

He had gone into that room only intending to do what he was required to do as quickly as possible, and return to his life as nothing had happened. But now, looking into those expressive eyes and hearing that name made him realize something he had pushed into the back of his mind since Mycroft had first proposed this solution.

This was not just about him. There was another person involved. John’s life would be tied to his as much as his own would be tied to John—for the rest of their lives.

“John?” he said roughly, as another wave of want to invest him. He was straddling the other man on his hands and knees and the only thing he needed to do was to lower himself and push inside his more than ready companion. His arms shook with the effort to resist the pull of his instinct as he waited for a reply.

“Yes...?”

“John...do you...do you agree with this?” Sherlock managed to ask between gritted teeth, struggling to control himself for a while longer. “Do you want...this bond?” He really didn’t know what he would do if John said ‘no’, but he knew he needed to ask.

John turned his head to be able to look at him, a surprised look crossing his face. His eyes studied Sherlock and then he smiled, broadly and unrestrained. “Yes, I do,” was his firm answer.

“Good...” Sherlock groaned, finally letting go of his control.

With a growl of desire, Sherlock moved down John’s body, pulled his thighs apart and plunged his aching member into the welcoming body. He groaned aloud at the incredible heat and tightness around him. He had never imagined it would feel so good. Gripping John’s hips so hard that his fingers left bruises, Sherlock let instinct guide him and started thrusting. First slowly, then faster and harder as John arched his body upwards to meet his movements. The knot at the base of Sherlock’s member, the one that had fully formed only on the day he had presented as an Alpha, inflated and the need to press it into John was overwhelming. But first...

Lead by his instinct, Sherlock stretched along John’s back and nuzzled his neck, until he found the place where his Omega’s scent was stronger and ripe with need and willingness. There was another scar there, one his dazzled brain recognized as a previous bond-mark and Sherlock growled with fury at the thought someone else had been there before him.

“Mine," he snarled with a voice he barely recognized as his own, "You're mine!" Sherlock thrust a final time, forcing his knot inside his Omega and bit down on John’s neck, breaking the skin and holding tight with his teeth as his body convulsed and he ejaculated. He was overwhelmed by a primal, feral feeling of success, of possession and he let go of John’s skin to roar out his pleasure.

Then everything blacked out and Sherlock collapsed over John’s body, his arms wrapped around his new bond-mate.

 

4

 

The cab ride from the Breeding House to central London was long, and after short call to his sister Harry to tell her about his changed status, John spent the time observing his new bond-mate. During the previous two days he been too preoccupied with other matters to properly think about the man he was now bound to for the rest of his life.

So far he only knew his name was Sherlock Holmes, and that he was tall, lithe but strong, generously endowed and with pale, soft skin. He had dark, curly hair, a face that while not being classically beautiful was extremely attractive, and lovely, almond shaped, changeable eyes. He was undeniably handsome and John knew many an Omega would kill to be bonded to such an Alpha.

He also knew Sherlock had a remarkable control over his Alpha instincts. Nicholas Coleman had jumped him and fucked him on the floor as soon as he had seen John was in heat. Sherlock instead had been gentler, and even taken the time to first ask if John agreed to the bond. John hadn’t expected it, and he had been strangely touched by the gesture because – in the last glimpse of lucidity he had before need engulfed him – he had understood the Alpha would have backed away had John been against the bond. Now, that wouldn’t have changed John’s destiny, as he would have been paired with another Alpha, but still it had been nice to have his opinion asked. It had boded well for their future life together.

Now he observed as his mate’s long, nimble fingers danced over his mobile, sending out a string of texts with a rapidity John could only dream of. He wondered what kind of job his Alpha had; maybe he worked in the City, which would explain the tailored clothes and the urgent texting.

After a stop at John’s bedsit, where he quickly packed his meagre belonging in a suitcase and a duffel bag, the taxi resumed its journey, until it finally came to a stop in Baker Street. John stepped down the car and leaning on his cane looked at the building in front of him. It was a prime spot and once again he wondered about who Sherlock Holmes was.

The Alpha opened the door and picked up John’s suitcase, preceding him inside the narrow hall. John followed him carrying the duffel bag and looked around. A door opened from the back of the hall and an elderly woman appeared.

“Sherlock!” she exclaimed happily, embracing the younger man. “You’re finally back! I was so worried.”

Sherlock briefly returned the embrace and replied, “There is no need to worry, Mrs. Hudson. It has all been settled.”

The woman, an Omega, pulled back from Sherlock and looked at John with an interrogative expression.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said gesturing with his hand, “This is John Watson, my bond-mate.” The woman smiled as he continued the introductions. “John, this my...our landlady, Mrs. Hudson.”

John smiled back as he shook hands with the woman. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hudson.”

She put her other hand over his own and said with bright eyes, “I’m so happy to meet you, John. May I call you so? It was about time this young man here settled down and started a family.” She beamed and continued, “It will be wonderful to have a child around here.”

John shifted his weight, uncomfortable. As almost every bonding heat resulted into a pregnancy, the old lady had of course thought it would be so for him too—and she looked so excited at the prospect of a child he didn’t know how to tell her there wouldn’t be one.

Sherlock, however, had not the same problem. “There won’t be any child, Mrs. Hudson. John cannot have them.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson murmured, as her face fell. “I’m so sorry, dear.”

“There is no need to feel sorry,” Sherlock interjected, starting to climb the nearby stairs. “This is perfect. Now come, John, let’s take a look at your new home.”

John smiled gently at Mrs. Hudson, and followed his Alpha up the stairs, moving slowly due to his limp and cane.

The flat Sherlock showed him was a chaotic blend of old and new pieces of furniture, of books and papers scattered on every available surface and chemist equipment on the kitchen table—which made him wonder again about his Alpha’s profession. There was also a real human skull on the mantelpiece, a bunch of envelopes stabbed with a pocketknife and a violin case on an armchair.

John’s military side rebelled at the mess, while his Omega side liked the warmth and cosiness of the place. It looked like a real home, completely different from his bedsit or Coleman’s cold flat.

“What do you think?” Sherlock asked after a while.

“It’s very nice, very nice indeed.” John answered, still looking around.

“Good,” Sherlock flashed a quick grin. “Your bedroom is up those stairs,” he gestured with a hand. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Your limp is psychosomatic and you might be able to get rid of it soon.”

John’s eyes widened in surprise. “How do you know it’s psychosomatic? Did the House Manager tell you?”

“No. She offered to give me your file, but I didn’t even look at it. Remember, I had to ask for your name. No, I just observed you.”

“Really? And what else did you observed?”

Sherlock looked straight into his eyes and spoke quickly, “I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from a war zone. I know you had a previous bond which lasted about fifteen years, and that you had your O-Gland removed as a teenager. I also know you've got a brother who is an alcoholic and recently walked out on his wife.”

“Oh.” John commented, surprised. Excluding Harry’s gender, everything was spot on. “How did you do that?”

Sherlock smirked and explained, “Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But the rolled magazine in the pocket of your jacket is a bulletin available only to doctors and it bears your name and address- so Army doctor, obvious. I’ve seen the scar on your shoulder; it’s a bullet wound dating back to no more than eighteen months ago. Your limp's bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then, possibly at the same time you lost your previous bond-mate, judging by the faded scar of the bond-bite.”

Sherlock paused to take a breath, but before John could comment, he resumed talking. “Then there's your brother, Harry. Your phone, the one you used to call him in the taxi. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but full of scratches. Not one, many over time it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. You wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already.”

“You heard the phone call I made.”

“Yes. You said ‘I’m your brother not your confessor’ during the conversation, so brother it is. Then there is the engraving on the back of the phone. Who is Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, the model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then – six months on he's given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. Sentiment. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her.”

John interjected, “How can you possibly know about the drinking?”

Sherlock’s smirked again. “Shot in the dark. Good one, though. After the call, you posed the phone on the car seat. So I noticed the power connection and tiny little scuff marks round the edge. Every night he plugs it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them.”

Silence fell over the room and then John broke it with an awed, “That... was amazing.”

Sherlock arched his eyebrow, clearly surprised. “Do you think so?”

“Of course it was,” John replied with a nod. “It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.”

“That's not what people normally say,” Sherlock commented, looking away.

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off!”

John laughed aloud and then walked to one of the armchairs near the fire place and sat down. His muscles still ached because of all…the exercise… he got the previous two days. He also hoped Sherlock would take the hint and sat down too, so they could have a proper talk as bond-mates.

Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to enter the flat carrying a newspaper. “What about these suicides, then, Sherlock?” She asked. “I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same.”

“Four,” Sherlock corrected her from his place near the window. “There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time.”

“A fourth?” Mrs. Hudson commented as John heard someone walk up the stairs. A moment later a man with iron- gray hair came into the room, his breath slight hurried.

“Where?” Sherlock said in greeting.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to me otherwise.”

“You know how they never leave notes? This one did. Will you come?”

John’s eyes danced from a man to the other, trying to understand what was going on. He had read something about the mysterious serial suicides, as the press had dubbed them, but why should they interest Sherlock?

“Not in a police car, I'll be right behind,” Sherlock agreed, apparently unhappy with the idea.

However, as soon as the other man left the room, the Alpha’s stance completely changed. He smiled broadly and jumped in happiness. “Brilliant! Yes!” he exclaimed as he whirled around the room to retrieve the coat and scarf he had dropped earlier. “Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas. Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food.”

“You know I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper,” she gently chided him, but Sherlock ignored her.

“Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, unpack your clothes, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!” He disappeared from the room as John still try to understand what had happened.

“Look at him, dashing about,” Mrs. Hudson commented, with a mixture of fondness and reproach. “My bond-mate was just the same.” She patted John’s shoulder, gave him the newspaper and added, “But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg.”

“Damn my leg!” John exclaimed irritated. He hated when people felt pity for him because of his limp. Then, upon seeing the older woman’s upset expression, he hurried to say, “Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing...” he didn’t complete the line, but he didn’t need to, as Mrs. Hudson had already forgiven his outburst.

“I understand, dear, I've got a hip.”

John unfolded the newspaper and his eyes widened as they fell on a picture on first page. It was a photo of the grey-haired man who had just left and the caption said he was DI Lestrade, in charge of the investigations regarding the serial suicides. He frowned. Why this man had come to ask for Sherlock’s help?

“I’m a consulting detective,” a deep voice said, making him jump. John realized he must had talked aloud. “Only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“What does that mean?” John asked, puzzled.

“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me,” Sherlock explained as he walked closer. He stopped near the armchair and added, “You're a doctor. An Army doctor.”

John nodded with a confused frown. They had already ascertained it.

“Any good?”

“Very good,” John replied with a bit of professional pride. He stood up and straightened, wondering where his Alpha was going with that line of inquiries.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.”

“Well, yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet?” Sherlock tilted his head to study John’s face better.

“Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much,” John answered…thinking it was the truth. Wasn’t what his therapist had said? That his life as soldier was in the past and he needed to move over and start anew. But the moment his Alpha asked, “Want to see some more?” John knew there was only a possible answer and he didn’t hesitate in voicing it.

“Oh, God, yes.”

 

5

 

The Chinese restaurant was almost deserted, which was not surprising given the late hour. Sherlock and John chose a table in the corner and ordered their meals, which arrived promptly.

They ate in silence, since they had already talked about Mycroft’s habit to kidnap people during the cab drive from Roland-Kerr College. So Sherlock used the time to think about the day just ended.

When he had gone home that morning, he had been all but resigned to spend the day inside, navigating awkward moments with John. He had fully expected to discover his new bond-mate was as boring as almost everyone was—but for once he had been proved wrong...and glad to be so.

First of all there had been the discovery of John’s past as army doctor; then there had been Lestrade’s visit and John’s agreement to go with him on the crime scene.

From that moment on, things had just gone better and better. First the delightful puzzle of how the killer made his victims take the poison. Then the realization of the killer’s mistake, followed by the search and recovery of the pink case. Later on, the exhilarating chase of the taxi, with John always at his heels as they run up and down buildings...Sherlock grinned around his fork as he remembered how John had reacted when he had told him he habitually pick-pocketed Lestrade when the DI was annoying. He had expected a reproachful scowl, and instead got a laughter. Then it had been his turn to smile when, back in Baker Street, John had realized he had left his cane at Angelo’s.

The end of the case had been brilliant too. True, Sherlock was irked because he would never know if he had chosen the right pill, but the discovery there was a man out there who sponsored serial killers more than made up for it. Moriarty...was it a surname? Or an alias? He would have to investigate it. Pity the cabbie was dead and unable to answer more questions...No, Sherlock wasn’t upset with John for killing the man. If he had to be sincere, he was...touched by it. Such a loyalty for a man he had just meet. True, they were bonded, but they barely knew each other and there was no emotional connection between them. Uhm...

“What are you thinking?” John’s intruded into his thoughts. “You are frowning and I don’t think it is because of how the food tastes.”

Sherlock put down his fork and laced his hands in front of his face, his elbows resting on the table. “I was thinking about what you just did. You killed a man to save one you barely knew.”

John shrugged. “It was the right thing to do. He was a serial killer threatening another potential victim. He had to be stopped.”

Sherlock nodded, approving the rational explanation.

“Besides,” John added with a smile, “it wouldn’t have been nice to lose my bond-mate before our honeymoon even started.”

Sherlock all but blanched at those words. Honeymoon? What honeymoon? Of course, he knew what it was: a period of vacation newly bonded or married couples spent alone…usually involving a lot of sex. Sherlock shivered at the mere idea. Oh no…

He felt a hand touch his wrist. “Sherlock? Are you all right?” John asked. “You are awfully pale.”

“Uh. Yes. I’m fine John,” Sherlock answered after taking a deep breath. “But there is something you need to know about me.”

John let go of his wrist, leant forward on the table, listening intently.

“You must understand I’ve always considered myself married to my work. I’ve never been interested in Alpha/Omega interactions, and I never intended to bond. An unfortunate incident and the law forced me to bond with you…but I never meant for us to live as bond-mates.”

John frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

“There won’t be any carnal relations between us. As I said, I never wanted a bond-mate, but I would be happy if in due time we could become friends.” Sherlock saw John’s face darken and he thought he knew why. He was aware most people gave an excessive importance to sex, and even if John was better than them in some regards, it was logical to presume he wouldn’t be happy without regular couplings. So he quickly added, “However my low or inexistent sex drive doesn’t mean you will have to be celibate. As I hope you have realized, I’m not a common Alpha. Certainly, I’m not as idiotically jealous as most Alphas are of their bond-mates.” Sherlock grimaced in distaste. “I won’t expect you to refrain from having sex on my account.”

“What?” John asked, his voice almost strangled.

“Feel free to engage in intimate relations with anyone you find suitable. Just don’t bring them in the flat; I don’t like to have strangers in my territory.”

“Okay…” John murmured, his face a mask of stunned confusion. Of incredulity.

For a moment Sherlock wondered what kind of Alpha John’s late bond-mate had been. Had John been emotionally tied to him? Had they been intimate on regular basis? Sherlock mentally snorted and pushed the thought away as irrelevant. That was the past, and this was the present. He was sure John would adapt to him and his new life with the same quickness he had lost his psychosomatic limp.

 

6

 

John was in the sitting room, staring at the open, blank page of his computer. Months before, his therapist had suggested that writing down what happened to him, would be help him to get used to civilian life. The last time they had seen each other, she had asked him if he had written something and he had replied with a “no”, because nothing happened to him.

It was different now. New, exciting things happened to him almost on daily bases, and he was feeling the desire to write them on his blog. In fact, there were so many things he could write he was finding it hard to decide where he should begin.

Well, the starting point was his bond with Sherlock Holmes. The younger man had been a constant source of surprises since they had met. Some were nice, such as the discovery of what he did for a living, other weren’t so nice, and such as learning he had been a drug addict in the past. And then, of course, there were the various body parts stashed in the fridge or in other unlikely locations.

John smiled as he thought of Sherlock.

His Alpha was an untidy, lazy git who couldn’t be bothered to fetch his own computer from his bedroom, let alone to go out to buy groceries or cleaning up after his messes. John had soon ended up doing most of the chores around the flat, inwardly wondering how Sherlock had ever managed to live alone all that time without learning a thing or two about housekeeping. Maybe it was because Mrs. Hudson, despite her frequent reminders she was not their housekeeper, was often found in the flat, dusting, cleaning and tidying up.

John wasn’t overtly irritated with Sherlock’s behaviour and his habit to order him around, because he had noticed he did that with everyone, Lestrade and Molly Hooper included. He was not an Alpha waiting to be attended by his Omega, just a selfish but still likeable slob…although the people actually liking Sherlock, as far as John could see, could be counted on the fingers of one hand. That made him a bit sad, if not angry.

As a doctor, John felt reasonably sure to declare Sherlock was neither the psychopath Donovan and Anderson thought him to be, nor the sociopath his Alpha claimed to be. John believed Sherlock was in the autistic spectrum, probably an Asperger, possibly never treated as such. His lack of social skills, lack of friends, strange postures, eccentric and repetitive behaviours, were among that syndrome characteristics. John felt that a few people – like Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade – instinctively knew some of Sherlock’s most unpleasant behaviours weren’t done on purpose, but most people didn’t.

John felt his anger stir again as he remembered how, the first time they had met, Sally Donovan had implied Sherlock must had have raped and forced the bond over John. Or how the light had dimmed in his Alpha’s eyes when Sebastian Wilkes had said everybody hated Sherlock at university.

Was it possible these people didn’t notice Sherlock was hurt by their words? Of course, Sherlock would adamantly deny to be touched by derogatory comments, but the happy way he reacted to John’s praises or Mrs. Hudson’s care made it clear he had not be treated gently in far too long.

John sighed as he looked at the blank screen in front of him. He couldn’t write all of this on his blog; it was too private.

It also felt too personal to write about other things concerning his bonded life, which had turned to be far better than he had dared to hope based on his previous experience. He could go out and make new friends, and get back in touch with old ones as Mike Stanford, something the possessive Coleman had never allowed him to do, not even while on leave. He could go to the pub for a drink or to watch a match, and well...he could also date.

Sherlock had given him a chance very few Omegas trapped in arranged bonds had ever had. The chance to find a person to love of his own choice. True, John would never be able to bond or marry with them, hence the necessity of limiting himself to betas, but with a bit of luck and a lot of honesty and understanding, he might find the right person, such as a married beta who couldn’t get a divorce, maybe.

It was a heady thought to be allowed such freedom. Back in the past year, he had been too much of a physiological mess to look out for an Alpha to bond with. He had been depressed and damaged and resigned to the fact no one would want him as mate. So he had mostly waited for his allowed time to end and the arranged bond that would follow.

Now it was different. John was no longer depressed, his limp had gone and he had a job besides following Sherlock on his cases. He was not sure if things would continue with Sarah, given how their first date had gone, but no matter how it went, John was grateful Sherlock had not trapped him in another loveless, cold bond.

Sherlock hadn’t even protested when John had taken Sarah to the flat after the fight in the Chinese Circus...John’s eyes widened as an idea crossed his mind. Then he smiled. He now knew what he would write on his blog: the recount of Sherlock’s cases—of their cases. He would have to delete the names to protect the innocent and avoid legal suits, but for the rest he would be able to say everything. The world deserved to know how brilliant Sherlock really was, something that couldn’t be gauged by his – frankly boring – “Science of Deduction” site.

John would start with the “pink lady” case, then move to the Chinese gang one and by the time he was done with them, he was rather sure something else would already have happened.

Stretching his fingers, John began to type, with a rather smug smile on his face.

 

7

 

It was 4.00AM, almost four hours after their confrontation with Moriarty at the pool, and Sherlock’s body was still thrumming with adrenaline. He was restless and pacing back and forth the sitting room as his mind replayed the night’s events.

Sherlock had never thought much about death. Obviously he didn’t want to die, but it had never stopped him from taking risks for the thrill of the game. However that night, he was not the only one facing death. John too had risked losing his life and it didn’t sit well with Sherlock. Wasn’t an Alpha’s duty to protect their Omega? Instead it had been John who had tried to protect him, restraining Moriarty as he told Sherlock to leave.

The gesture had touched a chord deep inside him. He had known from the start John wasn’t an ordinary Omega; he wasn’t whiny, clingy and boring as Sherlock had always thought his kind would be—and it had nothing to do with his neutered status. It was just because John...was John. John, who had been so moved by Andrew West’s murder and the fate of his Omega, left without her bondmate because of her own brother’s actions.

Sherlock wondered if John’s empathy was due to the loss of his own first bondmate, Colonel Nicholas Coleman. He had made researches, of course, but he had not been able to discover much about the bondmates’ relationship.

Had John loved Coleman? Was he still mourning him? It didn’t seem so, as Sherlock hadn’t noticed any of the signs he usually observed in grieving people, but John was very private and he may mourn when he was alone, hidden from Sherlock’s eyes.

The Alpha frowned. He had never cared about people’s feelings. The Work was the only thing that mattered to him, and he had no qualms with manipulating others by playing with their emotions to get what he wanted. Yet, somehow, her cared about John’s feelings. It was important for him that John was happy. But how to know? Should he ask John? What if he got a “no” as answer? What if John wanted more than he could give?

Sherlock growled, frustrated, and ran his hands in his hair. That was exactly why he avoided feelings. They confused him, filling his mind with unnecessary questions when he needed to focus only on Moriarty and the person that, with their timely phone call, had changed the consulting criminal’s mind. Those were really important questions that needed an answer.

Suddenly, the silence of the flat was broken by a strange noise. Sherlock tensed his ears, trying to discover its source. The noise repeated and Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat: it came from upstairs, from John’s bedroom and it seemed a sound of distress. In a blink he left the room and took the stairs two at time, reaching the bedroom just as the noise, a cross between a moan and a cry, sounded again.

Sherlock opened the door and silently entered the room. When his eyes adjusted to the little light filtering inside from the stairs, he saw John was in bed, asleep but thrashing and moaning.

Nightmare, Sherlock thought. He stepped closer to the bed, but then hesitated, unsure about what to do. There were two distinct schools of thought about nightmares, one saying the sleeping person had to be awoken, the other stating the opposite. Both were supported by valid arguments, so which one was the correct one?

Just then John cried out “No!” with an anguish-filled voice and Sherlock let his instinct choose for him. He sat down on the mattress, switched on the bedside lamp, and shook John’s shoulder.

“Wake up John,” he said aloud, shaking harder when the other man didn’t wake but cried again, uttering a series of “no, no, no”. Sherlock bent over John, took hold of both his shoulders and shook him again as he ordered, “Wake up, Captain Watson!”

John’s eyes snapped open. For several seconds he stared at Sherlock with a fixed, unseeing gaze. Then he blinked and murmured, “Sherlock?”

“Yes,” he answered with a small smile. “How are-” Sherlock never completed the line as John threw his arms around him and pulled him down in a strong, almost desperate embrace. Sherlock froze for an instant, taken aback by the sudden unexpected move, then gingerly tried to hug John’s back as he could given their positions.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, until John’s rapid heartbeat slowed down and he released Sherlock, allowing him to straighten to a sitting position. John sat up, cleared his throat and looked down at his lap, clearly embarrassed. “Uhm...Sorry I disturbed you...”

Sherlock shook his head. “No need to apologize. I wasn’t sleeping. Too busy thinking about what happened with Moriarty.”

“Yeah,” John nodded. “My nightmare was about that.”

“Oh. Did Moriarty...kill you in it?” Sherlock asked, curious to know more about how John’s mind worked.

John shook his head. “It wasn’t me...it was you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise. John had been so anguished to see him dead in his dream? Not knowing what to say about it, he asked, “Do you need something? Tea, maybe?”

“No,” John answered quickly. “I don’t need anything...” his voice died as his eyes darted away.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying. You want something, but don’t want to ask for it. What is it?”

John’s cheek flushed and he looked at everything but Sherlock.

“Out with it, John,” Sherlock commanded, impatient.

John cleared his throat in a manner that suggest both nervousness and embarrassment and finally spoke in a rushed tone. “Would you...Could you...stay here with me? You don’t need to sleep here, just stay until I fall asleep?”

Sherlock nodded. “Sure,” he answered without hesitation. He had never slept beside another person except for the brief naps between coituses when he and John had mated, and he was curious to see what it felt like to do it when he wasn’t prey of his hormones and could analyse the sensations. He toed off his shoes and slipped beneath the covers as John scooted on the mattress to make room for him.

They reclined, Sherlock on his back, John on his side facing him. Sherlock switched off the lamp and murmured, “Goodnight, John”.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John replied, equally softly.

Silence fell on the room and Sherlock felt the weight of several days without rest come over him. He closed his eyes and was about to fell asleep when he felt an arm wrap around his chest. He didn’t say anything, nor he reacted in any way, but a small smile graced his lips as sleep claimed him for good.

 

8

 

The text had been brief: _Speedy’s. Now. Don’t tell Sherlock-MH_.

Curious about the nature of Mycroft’s summon, John left the flat, leaving Sherlock working on some experiment.

It was pouring outside and John was glad Mycroft had chosen a meeting place so close to home. He ran inside the shop and quickly located the table where Mycroft was sitting with a cup of tea and a folder wrapped in a plastic bag.

John ordered a tea for himself and sat down in front of Mycroft, tilting his head to read the folder title.

“Irene Adler’s file?” he asked for confirmation.

Mycroft nodded. “Closed forever. I’m about to go and inform my brother…or, if you prefer, you are, that she somehow got herself into a witness protection scheme in America. New name, new identity. She will survive and thrive-but he will never see her again.”

John swallowed hard, as relief surged inside him. He had never known what jealousy felt like until Irene Adler had entered their lives. Sherlock’s interested in the beautiful, intelligent Alpha dominatrix had been immediate. There was nothing the detective liked more than a challenge and she had provided a good one. Their first meeting had ended with Sherlock drugged and whipped by Adler, which had only made him even more interested in her, despite Mycroft’s orders to stay away from her.

John hadn’t seen how strong that interested had been until Irene Adler’s apparent death. Then he had had to witness to Sherlock mourning her, not eating, not sleeping, not talking and composing sad music for her…

It had been then that John had realized that somehow, in the year he had been bonded with Sherlock, his feelings for his Alpha had changed. The night Mycroft had called him to let him know Sherlock had accepted a cigarette after identifying Adler’s body and thus was at risk as far drugs were concerned, was the night John felt jealousy for the first time. He felt angry at the idea Sherlock might resort to drugs to cope with a stranger’s death.

It was while waiting for Sherlock’s return from the morgue that he had realized for the first time that his feelings for his bondmate had changed. Their friendship had evolved in something different…he had fallen in love.

John had been shocked. Why hadn’t he noticed it sooner? Was it because he had never been in love before? Was it why he hadn’t been very disappointed when Sarah had broken up with him? The reason he hadn’t looked for other women to date?

His epiphany had made more difficult for him to cope with what had happened next: Adler’s “resurrection” and her presence in their flat. Watching her flirt with Sherlock, seeing him respond to her, listening to her sexual innuendos was a torture. A part of John had wanted to stand up and tell her to keep her hands away from his bondmate, that Sherlock was his and only his. But he had restrained himself: Sherlock and he were bondmates in name only. His Alpha had made it clear from the start and would probably resent John if he made his jealousy known.

John had felt beyond relieved when Adler had disappeared once for all from their lives, without Sherlock showing signs of missing her, although it was difficult to say for sure if it was really so.

“John? Are you listening to me?”

Mycroft’s question brought him to the present.

“Uhm…yes. I was just thinking…Why would he care about her fate? He despised her at the end. Won't even mention her by name, just 'The Woman'.”

“Is that loathing or a salute? One of a kind, the one woman who matters.” Mycroft mused aloud.

“He's not like that,” John replied, more defensive than he liked to sound, “He doesn't feel things that way, I don't think.”

Mycroft gave him a sort of compassionate gaze that that made him grit his teeth. The older Holmes was fully aware of the nature of their bond, and now he was also fully aware of John’s feelings for his brother. John just hoped he would not comment on them.

“My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?” Mycroft asked him.

“I don't know,” John answered. Sherlock’s heart was an enigma for him. He longed for a true relationship with his bondmate. He hadn’t been a virgin when he had bonded with Coleman. He knew how good sex could be between two people who cared for each other, and he longed to experience again that never forgotten passion and tenderness. But the problem was John wasn’t sure Sherlock was able to love like that, and he didn’t want to press him in the fear of ruining their relationship. They weren’t lovers, but they were friends and it was so much more than he ever had during his 17 years with Coleman.

“Neither do I. But, initially, he wanted to be a pirate.”

John smiled at the mental image of child Sherlock with an eye patch and a wooden sword and tapped a finger on the plastic bag. “He'll be OK with this ...witness protection, never seeing her again ...he'll be fine.”

“I agree,” Mycroft nodded. “That's why I decided to tell him that.”

John frowned. “Instead of what?”

“She's dead. She was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi two months ago and beheaded.”

“It was definitely her? She's done this before.”

“I was thorough this time,” Mycroft confirmed. “It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me, and I don't think he was on hand, do you? So...What shall we tell Sherlock?”

John looked at the folder. They could tell the truth to Sherlock and kill any lingering hope he might have to meet Irene Adler again, or they could tell him the lie about the witness protection and leave his hopes alive. The first option appealed to John’s jealous side, the other to him more caring and concerned side.

In the end he decided to go for the second option, because he loved Sherlock and wished to do what was best for him.

 

9

 

The glass of whisky was empty and the flames in the fireplace reduced to embers when Sherlock resurfaced from the depths of his mind.

The inn was silent and dark but for a small lamp in a corner. He didn’t need to check his watch to know it was very late. It was also quite cold now that the fire had died, so he decided to go to bed. He wouldn’t probably sleep, but at least he would be warm under the covers.

Sherlock climbed the stairs to the first floor and opened the door of his and John’s room. He came to a halt as soon as he stepped inside, taking in how the moonlight filtering from the half-closed curtains bathed the twin beds and the figure sleeping on one of them. John was on his side, curled in a foetal position, looking smaller than he was.

The sight stirred something inside Sherlock, a desire to protect, which was ridiculous as John was more than capable of protecting himself. Yet…yet John had been hurt earlier than night—by Sherlock himself.

“I have no friends,” he had almost snarled, to which John had replied with “I wonder why,” before leaving, his back ramrod straight, his head held high.

Sherlock continued to watch as John shifted in his sleep. He shouldn’t care so much for the result of some misspoken words—but he did. He didn’t like to know he had hurt John, even if his careless words had been uttered during the worst meltdown he had had since he was a child. He didn’t like when John was upset or angry with him…he didn’t like it at all. Even if, to be totally sincere, his words to John had been the truth. He had no friends because John was not a friend…he was more. He was his conductor of light, the reason Sherlock worked better when he was near. He was also more patient and more mindful of other people’s feelings. In short John was his conscience...the better part of himself.

Also…also John was so very attractive, and that was quite a surprise for Sherlock. He had never been interested in sex and everything that went with Alpha/Omega biology. Body was just transport and after witnessing to all the idiocies people did in name of love and lust, he had sworn them off as dangerous for his mind’s wellbeing.

However something had changed in him after his meeting with Irene Adler. Something had awaken inside him. At first that interest had been focused on Irene. She had been beautiful and smart and he had been quite fascinated by her—but he had never trusted her enough to make himself vulnerable with feelings, and it had been a wise decision given what had happened with her.

After her departure from his life, his hyperawareness of his body, his desire – was it desire? – for closeness had transferred on John, the man he trusted with everything he had. His devote companion and partner.

His bondmate.

Sherlock had started to wonder what it would be like to have sex with John without the frenzy of the heat. Would he like it? He had just vague memories of their bonding heat, as his mind had been completely overpowered by his instincts and body needs. He was not keen to repeat a similar experience as he didn’t like to lose control in such a way, but he would like to try again in normal circumstance, if only for experiment’s sake. To see, to know first hand what all the fuss about sex was about.

As John’s bonded Alpha he had all the rights to have his Omega attend to his needs, but…there were two big ‘buts’.

First of all Sherlock had noticed that all of John’s Beta dates were women. Was it possible that John was a monosexual liking only females, but obliged by the system to against his nature to bond with Alpha males?

The other ‘but’ concerned John’s previous bondmate, Nicholas Coleman. Discreet inquiries to John’s army friends had revealed he hadn’t been happy with Coleman, that he had resented to have relations with a man he didn’t love, but who he had the right to shag John every time he wanted.

Sherlock would rather be celibate for the rest of his life than oblige John to submit to something he didn’t want.

As if he was aware of Sherlock’s scrutiny, John then wake up and asked, his voice rough with sleep, “Sherlock? What are you doing standing there?”

“Thinking.”

“Uh. Good night.” John turned on his other sire, ready to fall asleep again, but Sherlock felt he couldn’t allow it, not before he explained what had happened to him earlier and why he had been so brusque. He quickly crossed the room and sat on John’s mattress.

“Stay awake a little longer, there is something I need to tell you.”

John grunted and turned to face. “Fine, but be quick,” he replied with an annoyed tone.

Sherlock cleared his throat and began, “About what happened earlier tonight…It was something I've not experienced before.”

“Yes, you said. Fear, Sherlock Holmes got scared, you said,” John commented, still annoyed. “Can I return to sleep now?”

“No,” Sherlock pressed, his tone urgent. “Listen to me a bit longer. It was more than fear, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt.” Sherlock paused and looked at John, trying to see if the other man understood how shocking the experience had been for him. “I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until tonight.”

John propped himself up with his elbow and switched on the bedside lamp. “You can't actually believe that you saw some kind of monster?” He asked, his tone less annoyed and a bit more concerned.

“No, I can't believe that,” Sherlock replied. “But I did see it, so the question is, how? How?”

John’s expression clearly showed how little he cared about finding an answer to that question. “Yes. Yeah, right, good. So you've got something to go on, then. Good luck with that. Now, let me sleep.”

He reached out to the bedside lamp, but Sherlock stopped him. “Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it.” He said, looking straight at John’s eyes. “I don't have friends. I've just got one. You.”

They stared at each other for a long time, searching for answers in the other’s eyes, then John nodded. “Right. You’re forgiven.” A small smile. “Now go to sleep.”

He switched off the lamp and turned on his side, a clear signal for Sherlock to move to his own bed.

Problem was Sherlock didn’t want to. His bed didn’t look very inviting. He preferred to stay there, sitting near John than go to sleep. Even if he knew some rest would do good to his still muddled mind.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice broke the silence. “Why don’t you go to bed?”

“I don’t want to,” he answered and waited for John’s reaction.

There was a sigh, then John scooted over the mattress and raised the covers. “Lay down at least. You’ll be warmer.”

Surprised and filled with a warmth that had nothing to do with the prospect of sleeping beneath a quilt, Sherlock lost no time. He toed off his shoes, shed his jacket, and slipped in bed.

The mattress was narrow, barely able to house two grown men, so they had to press close to each other. It was absolutely perfect.

“Good night, Sherlock.” John mumbled.

“Good night, John,” he answered, as he closed his eyes.

It would indeed turn to be a good night, one of the best of Sherlock’s life.

 

10

 

John didn’t need to check the calendar to know what day today was. It was the second anniversary of the last time he saw Sherlock. He knew both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would come to visit him and would try and keep his my busy in what it was supposed to be the second anniversary of his Alpha’s suicide.

However John knew it wasn’t so. It had been his body to tell him.

During the first two months after that terrible day at Bart’s, John had been crushed with grief, the pain of losing the man he had come to love with all of himself almost too strong to bear. Then one morning while he was showering, the hot water making his natural scent more intense, he had realized his body fragrance had not changed.

When Coleman had died, John’s scent had changed to his un-bonded one within three or four weeks. But his current scent still marked him as being bonded with Sherlock—which meant Sherlock had to be still alive. Heat beating faster, and looking for a confirmation to his theory, John had used the mirror to check the back of his neck. The scar of Sherlock’s bonding bite had been still silvery, not a pale, faded white as the one left with Coleman. It had been another proof Sherlock was still alive.

The discovery had made John giddy with joy and he had almost run down the stairs to tell about it to Mrs. Hudson. But then something had stopped him.

Why had Sherlock faked his suicide? Why had he left John and his friends cry and mourn for him?

John had collapsed on the toilet seat, assaulted by the thought Sherlock might have orchestrated his suicide to disappear and start a new life somewhere else, away from his tarnished reputation and a bondmate he had never wanted but had been saddled with. However, he had shaken away that idea very soon.

They had gotten closer after Baskerville. Sherlock had become more…affectionate, using every occasion to brush against or touch John. There also been gentle smiles and speculative looks when Sherlock thought John would not see him. More than once the Omega had thought his bondmate was about to kiss him, and he had longed for it. Then Moriarty had resurfaced and things had changed.

Sherlock must had deduced Moriarty was planning something serious against him. He had become tenser, closed off, often time distant, his brilliant mind lost in thought. Then Moriarty had finally struck, and there had been no time to talk as the events rushed toward their tragic conclusion.

That last night at Bart’s they had slept on a futon Molly had spread for them beneath a work table, and Sherlock had wrapped his long limbs around, seeking for and giving both warmth and reassurance. John had then promised to himself that as soon as the situation with Moriarty would be solved, he would tell Sherlock he loved him and kiss his Alpha senseless—but he never had the chance to do so, as Sherlock jumped from Bart’s roof only a few hours later.

Thus John reached the conclusion Sherlock had faked his death for other reasons, maybe to go off the grid and be able to find a way to clear his name, and all John could do was to keep his grieving widower façade and hope his Alpha would come home soon.

It chafed at him, of course. He was a soldier, a man of action. It didn’t sit well with him to stay idle while is bondmate was away, possibly – no, probably knowing Sherlock – in danger. He wanted to help, but the only two people who could have given him some answers, Mycroft and Molly, where not at hand. Mycroft could no longer be found at the Diogenes Club and John had no means to find him, as his attempts to contact the older man using the CCTV had failed. Molly instead had moved to Australia for two years, to teach in an important university. John had wanted to talk with Molly because she had signed Sherlock’s death certificate and performed the autopsy. She had to know Sherlock was still alive and might also know why he had faked his death and where he was.

So the only things John could do was wait and wait, as the world around him went on.

Now, two years after that fateful day, all of Sherlock’s past cases had been reviewed by a team of NSY experts, which had proven them genuine and his deduction corrects. It had also been proved without any doubt that Richard Brook had been a creation of Jim Moriarty and thus Sherlock’s reputation had been restored. The press, which had been so quick to turn against Sherlock, was now clamouring the responsible on the detective’s suicide should be punished, completely ignoring the role it had played in it. Had John not been aware of Sherlock being alive, he would feel furious against the journalists. As it was he ignored them and their requests for interviews, as he had ignored Donovan and Anderson’s attempts to apologize. It was their fault if Sherlock had been accused and arrested, and he wasn’t feeling very forgiving at the moment. Maybe after Sherlock returned...maybe. He only person he had accepted an apology from was Lestrade, because he had seen the guilt and desperation on the older man’s face, and the knowledge his Alpha was alive had made John forgive the inspector.

With a sigh, John pushed away all those thoughts and walked down the stair to see if the postman had already passed. He had, and there were a few envelopes on the floor. John picked them up and sorted them. Two were addressed to Mrs. Hudson, so he put them on the narrow table near her door. The others were all for him: two bills, a letter from the Ministry of Health And Reproduction and one without no return address and simply addressed to John Watson.

He ignored the bills and opened the letter from the ministry with a bit of concern. What if they wanted to bond him with someone else? He knew it would be impossible, of course, as his bondmate was still alive, but such revelation would ruin Sherlock’s cover.

John quickly scanned the letter and breathed in relief. The Ministry could no longer force him to bond as they had done after Coleman’s death, but they strongly encouraged him to consider the idea and let them help him in his choice of mate.

“No way,” John muttered as he crumpled the letter. He wouldn’t do it even if Sherlock was really dead.

He then opened the last letter, which contained small white card with a few words written with a fountain pen.

_Open the door, John-MH_

MH—Mycroft!

Heart pounding, John opened the door and saw a sleek black sedan parked there; near the back door stood Anthea, or whatever was her name.

She smiled at him and opened the car door. Blood pounding in his ears, John put his jacket on and stepped outside, pulling the door closed after him. He went inside the car without hesitation and soon they were on their way.

John knew better than ask where they were going. Besides, he was too busy wondering about the reason of this summon. His emotions were raging from the elation of thinking Sherlock was finally back, to the despair caused by the thought Mycroft had called him to give him bad news. John appealed to his ER medical training and military experience to stay calm and not panic.

Finally – John couldn’t say how much time had passed or where they were – the car pulled up in front big, well kept white and black house. Anthea led John inside and then along a corridor, coming to a halt in front of a closed door.

“In there, Doctor Watson,” she said, speaking for the first time. She gave him a small smile and walked away.

John took a deep breath to steady himself, then put his hand on the knob and pushed open the door.

The room he stepped into was big, luminous and airy. It was a study-library, with floor to ceiling bookshelves, a big wooden table with chairs, two leather armchairs and a couch. It was the latter that caught John’s attention. Or better, the figure curled atop of it.

Moving slowly, almost not daring to breath, John walked toward the couch. The more he stepped closer, the more the figure took shape and became recognizable: tall lithe build, slim hips, narrow yet strong shoulders and a mop of curly hair.

Emotions chocking his throat, John fell on his knees near the couch, scanning his Alpha’s beloved face. Sherlock looked paler and older than he remembered. He was gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes—he looked exhausted and it was probably the reason he had not woken up when the door had opened.

John reached out with a hand and put it on Sherlock’s t-shirt covered chest. His fingers had barely brushed the grey fabric that a hand wrapped around his wrist, the grip vice-like. An instant later, not quite knowing how it had happened, John found himself sprawled on the floor with a heavy weight pinning him down and a forearm pressed against his windpipe, as wild, unseeing eyes stared at him.

“Sherlock!” he managed to choke out.

The unseeing eyes blinked once, twice and Sherlock seemed to snap out his trance-like state. Surprise bloomed on his face as he looked down at his captive.

“John...” he whispered, the pressure on the smaller man’s throat lessening.

John smiled a little. “Yes, it’s me.”

“John,” Sherlock repeated and then lowered his face and kissed him. There was nothing gentle in it: it was deep, rough, desperate—and John responded in kind, too dazed to realize it was the first kiss they had ever shared. He poured all his love, longing and loneliness, wanting to make his Alpha understand how much he meant to him.

When they separated, Sherlock made a needy sound and embraced John, pulling him close as he rolled them on their sides. John hugged him back, his face pressed against Sherlock’s neck.

They stayed like that for several minutes, just hugging and breathing each other’s scent. A part of John was surprised to see Sherlock behave so emotionally, but God only knew what had happened to his Alpha during the past two years, and how alone he must had been since all the people he cared for thought him death.

Speaking of which, John thought it was time to get some answers.

“Why, Sherlock?” he asked softly but firmly. There was no reason to elaborate the question.

“Because Moriarty had snipers ready to kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if I didn’t jump. There was no other way to stop them from pulling the trigger.” Sherlock answered softly.

“But you were ready for such a possibility...since you are still alive,” John commented

“Yes, I was ready. That’s why I asked him to meet on Bart’s rooftop and why I sent you away. My homeless network, Mycroft and Molly helped me.”

John nodded against Sherlock’s chest, and said nothing. There would be time later to ask for a more detailed explanation.

“You are...very calm, John” Sherlock commented after a few minutes of silence. “I wasn’t expecting such a welcome.”

“What were you expecting? What I would shout at you? Punch you? Faint because of the shock?”

“They were all possible outcomes, especially the second one.”

John smiled. “That would have probably been my reaction hadn’t I known all along you were alive.”

Sherlock pulled back from their embrace to look at him in the eyes. “How?”

“My scent. It never changed. It changed after Coleman died, but not this time. Also, your bite mark is still silvery, not dull white as it would be if you were dead. I noticed these fact about two months after your fall and thus I knew...well, hoped...one day you would come back.”

Sherlock looked at him with as an intense gaze as John had never seen before and said, “I will always come back to you, John. You’re my bondmate and I love you.”

John’s breath caught in his throat upon hearing the three words he had so longed to hear. “I love you too,” he said back.

Sherlock smiled broadly, then leant forward. John met him halfway and they kissed.

This time it was gentler and, with a clear mind, John noticed Sherlock’s inexperience. Too much teeth and too little tongue. It made John smile against his bondmate’s lips. Of course Sherlock was inexperienced. He had come virgin to their bonding heat and the mating frenzy didn’t really count as experience. Back then, neither of them had cared for the other, but had just wanted to satisfy an overwhelming biological need.

John gently pushed Sherlock away and put a finger on his lips as his Alpha tried to speak. Shh...let me teach you how it is done.”

Sherlock frowned for an instant, then nodded. “Yes, but not here”.

As Sherlock moved to disentangle from their embrace, John was reminded they were lying on the floor. Grinning he stood up, then frowned with concern when he saw Sherlock limp to the couch and a grab a cane posed against it.

“What’s wrong with your leg?” he asked.

“Busted knee ligaments. I’ll need surgery, but not right now.” Sherlock answered and while the doctor in John wanted to know more about the injury, the man agreed it could wait.

He took the hand Sherlock offered him and followed his Alpha to an adjacent room, a plush chamber with a big double bed in the middle of it.

John tugged on Sherlock’s hand and murmured. “Now lay down and let me teach you how to make love...do you want it?”

Sherlock’s pupils dilated. “More than everything,” he replied, his voice deeper than usual. He set the cane near the bedside table and settled on the mattress, reclining on his back as his eyes never left John’s.

John toed off his shoes and stretched near beside, catching his Alpha’s lips in a kiss. He bit gently at Sherlock’s bottom lip, then slid out his tongue to press its tip against the lips, asking for entrance. Sherlock opened his mouth and John eagerly explored it, coaxing his Alpha’s tongue into copying his movements.

When lack of oxygen finally forced them to part, both men were flushed and panting. Sherlock the looked up at John with expectant eyes, making him chuckle.

“You don’t have to wait for my lead. The trick here is to do what feels good. I promise to tell you if you do something I don’t like—and you will do the same, all right?”

Sherlock nodded, and with a smile on his face, he pulled John fully atop of him, kissing his again.

John moaned as he felt the proof his Alpha’s desire against his thighs. The press of that hardness made him almost frantic with the need to feel Sherlock’s skin against his own and he pulled away from the kiss. “We are both overdressed…” he panted. His erection was pressing against his jeans and his tights were damp with his natural lubrication. He was very excited, since this was the first time he was going to have sex of his volition and with a partner he desired in almost twenty year. No wonder he was already so turned on!

Sherlock nodded and John moved away, to give him room to divest himself from his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. John got quickly rid of his own clothes and soon they were both nude.

John was finally able to look at his Alpha’s naked body, as he had not been able or interested to do during their bonding heat.

His gaze raked the younger man’s body from his shoulders to his chest, down to his belly and his strong long legs, before trailing up again to his crotch. His Alpha cock was big and already showing the beginning of his knot.

“You are gorgeous, you know?” John said breathily, as he knelt near his bondmate’s hips. “Very sexy.”

Sherlock blushed a pale pink. “I don’t really know. I’ve never thought of myself that way…Never been interested in it.”

“Well, you are. Very much so.” John smiled and reached out to take Sherlock in his hand. He stroked slowly, watching avidly as Sherlock closed his eyes and rocked his hips.

It did not take long for the Alpha’s breath to become laboured, so John stopped his ministrations. He could not risk Sherlock losing control when they had barely started.

He straddled Sherlock’s hips and stretched atop of him, both of them groaning as their erections pressed together. Sherlock and bucked against John, seeking more stimulation, as his arms surrounded the smaller man.

John lowered his head to kiss his Alpha’s nose, cheeks, eyelids, as under him Sherlock kept on arching and wriggling to increase the friction on his aroused sex.

John pushed himself up on his arms and knees, breaking the contact between them.

Sherlock let out an agonized moan. “John…” he breathed, looking slightly desperate, “come here…I need to come…”

“Not yet, Sherlock.” John looked down at the unbelieving eyes, “Making love is much more than just achieving release as it was during our heat. It’s losing yourself in the pleasure your body and your partner’s can give you. It’s not just a headlong rush to orgasm…do you understand it?”

Sherlock shook his head, still painting hard, although he looked less desperate.

“Let me show you, then. I promise you will like it.” John lowered himself again, half on the bed, half on Sherlock, as he made sure to avoid the other man’s erection.

He kissed Sherlock while rubbing his upper arms, trying to make him relax. Then he moved down his body, leaving a damp trail along his skin. Sherlock let him do it, caressing his back gently, until John reached his nipples. When he licked one of the pert nubs, the Alpha’s fingers dug deeply into his muscles.

“John!” he cried out, arching his back.

“What?” John asked, as he sucked one nipple and fingered the other.

“Stop it!” Sherlock groaned, legs thrashing on the mattress.

“Why?” John raised his head, surprised. “Don’t you like it?”

“Yes…no…I can’t stand it…it’s too much…” Sherlock panted, hair damp with sweat.

John sat up as he considered the situation. A part of him wanted to continue his exploration of his bondmate. He was not sure Sherlock would allow him so much control in the future. He was an Alpha, after all, and it would be his nature to be in charge in bed as he was in the other aspects of their life.

On the other side, he too had almost reached the end of his endurance. He was copiously leaking from both his cock and opening and he ached to feel Sherlock inside him.

Rising on his knees John scooted forward until he was perched above Sherlock’s erection, then took the turgid shaft and guided it to his opening. Once the tip was inside him, let go of it and slowly sunk down.

A loud moan escaped his lips. God! He had forgotten how good it felt to be filled and stretched by a cock he actually wanted inside him, and Sherlock fit so well inside of him, as if he had been made for him.

John took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock’s blown black pupils. “You OK?” he asked, unable to be more articulate.

Sherlock just nodded with his head, as his tongues slipped out to lick his hips.

John braced his hands on his Alpha’s chest and started moving. Up, down, grinding, rolling his hips, all the moves that made him feel good, that made Sherlock’s cock rub against his most sensitive spot.

“John…” Sherlock, eyes closed as his hand crunched at the sheets, as if he was trying to restrain himself.

“Do you want to take over?” John whispered, his breath ragged.

He got his answer when Sherlock surged up, grabbed his shoulders and twisted them around.

“Be careful with your knee!” John cautioned.

“Forget my knee!” Sherlock growled as he plunged again inside him, his thrust long and powerful.

John hugged Sherlock with both his arms and legs and rocked his hips in time with his bondmate’s thrusts.

It felt fantastic and John didn’t want it to ever end—but of course it was impossible. They were too excited to make it last.

“Touch me,” John begged and Sherlock rushed to wrap his hand around his little Omega erection, sliding it up and down, first hesitantly, then more confidently as John’s cries became sharper.

John sensed his orgasm approach. His toes curled, his belly muscles tensed and he cried out. “Now Sherlock!”

His Alpha gave a last final, strong push and his knot slipped inside John, pressing hard against his sweet spot.

John shouted as climax crashed over him, as intense as never before.

His triumphant cry was soon echoed by Sherlock’s roar, as his bondmate found his own satisfaction.

A few minutes later, John found himself lying on sweat soaked sheets, with Sherlock’s body slumped over him.

He tightened his embrace around the pale skinned shoulders and posed a light kiss on Sherlock’s damp hair, waiting for his Alpha to recover.

Sherlock stirred and raised his head, looking at him with a smile. “Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi,” John smiled back. “How was it?”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. “Intense. Beautiful. I never thought it could be like this.” A pause, then, “When can we do it again?”

John laughed. “You’ll need to wait a few hours. I’m no longer that young—nor are you.”

Sherlock pouted in displeasure and John chuckled and gave him a quick kiss on the mouth, nibbling at the pouting lips until they bent in a smile.

They separated and Sherlock rolled onto his side, pulling John along, so they could rest more comfortably as they waited for the Alpha’s knot to deflate and slid out from John’s body.

When it finally happened, a few minutes later, John could see that Sherlock’s eyelids were drooping as he struggled to stay awake. He caressed his Alpha’s cheek and whispered, “Go to sleep, Sherlock. I’ll be here when you wake up, and then we will talk again and start planning for your return among the living.”

“Yes...but first we’ll have more sex...”Sherlock murmured, his eyes closing.

John chuckled, “Yes, we’ll have that too. Now sleep.”

Sherlock muttered a soft, indistinct sound and then fell silent, his breathing deepening.

John stayed awake, watching his Alpha sleep and enjoying the sensation of resting close to the man he loved.

He found himself thinking of how good his life had turned to be since the day he had been obliged to bond with Sherlock. True, back then he had prayed the new bond would be happier than his first one, but it had gone beyond his wildest hopes. And the best was yet to come, as their life as truly bonded mates had just began.

John kissed Sherlock’s forehead and settled down to sleep. He had the gut feeling he would need all his energy to keep up with Sherlock’s newfound interest for sex...and wasn’t it an exciting prospect?

John was still smiling happily when sleep overcome him, warm and safe in his Alpha’s arms.

 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed my first foray in the A/O universe. :-)


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